Mondromania
Jan. 18th, 2007 03:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
todayiamadaisyHow much do I want a mondrianium? It reminds me of the mondrimat, which was one of the very first sites I ever visited on the Internet. Ah, memories. Who'd have thought that adding lines and colouring boxes could fill in so much time?
*****
I've been feeling slightly disgruntled since my second-last radio shift on Tuesday. First, I was with Bernie, who alone is quite enough to disgruntle anyone. Then the new assistant station co-ordinator brought a new reader into the studio only half an hour before air time and said, "This is Peter, he's going to read today." Oh, is he? With no training and after we've finished putting the show together and against all established guidelines for new readers? Right. Anyway, Peter seemed like quite a nice chap, and was, of course, completely unaware that his arrival had caused a hurried reshuffle; we got him to air for twenty minutes and he did quite well.
In times gone by, I would have gone to the new assistant co-ordinator after the show and explained that that isn't the best way to introduce a new reader; it's stressful for everyone, and if he tried it on Thursday, for instance, Jan, who is much more forthright than I, would send them both packing. I came over all Pontius Pilate though, and washed my hands of the matter. I was more concerned that the roster preparation sheet hadn't appeared yet, preventing my announcement of my imminent retirement. I had to tell the new assistant co-ordinator - the skeevy guy I don't like terribly much - instead. He shrugged and said, "Okay then, I'll cross your name off."
Now, I wasn't expecting wailing and weeping and gnashing of teeth. Or a party, come to that. But after nearly four years, haven't I even earnt a "Sorry to lose you" or "Thanks for your time"? Hmph.
*****
The radio station we have on at work was broadcasting a tennis match from the Australian Open yesterday, and every single game was one of those that got to deuce then advantage, deuce, advantage, deuce, advantage, deuce, etc, ad nauseam. I used to play tennis, back in the day. Oh yes, I once hit the en tout cas as part of the Purnim Ladies' Club (Girls) team in the Warrnambool & Districts Lawn Tennis Competition. I even have a commemorative spoon to prove it. I had a cunning little forehand slice that I could put right on the centre line, baffling the two players on the other side of the net... and that was about it, really. It was my complete lack of ability, athleticism and ambition that stopped me from becoming world No. 1.
So while I'm au fait with the rules of tennis, I had a personal rule of my own, one that I deemed prudent not to mention to my team mates. Namely, when stuck in one of those interminable deuce, advantage, deuce games, once we got to deuce for the fifth time, I would let the other team win the game.
Years later, in an annual performance review, an employer told me I wasn't a team player. Well... guilty as charged, Your Honour.
I've been feeling slightly disgruntled since my second-last radio shift on Tuesday. First, I was with Bernie, who alone is quite enough to disgruntle anyone. Then the new assistant station co-ordinator brought a new reader into the studio only half an hour before air time and said, "This is Peter, he's going to read today." Oh, is he? With no training and after we've finished putting the show together and against all established guidelines for new readers? Right. Anyway, Peter seemed like quite a nice chap, and was, of course, completely unaware that his arrival had caused a hurried reshuffle; we got him to air for twenty minutes and he did quite well.
In times gone by, I would have gone to the new assistant co-ordinator after the show and explained that that isn't the best way to introduce a new reader; it's stressful for everyone, and if he tried it on Thursday, for instance, Jan, who is much more forthright than I, would send them both packing. I came over all Pontius Pilate though, and washed my hands of the matter. I was more concerned that the roster preparation sheet hadn't appeared yet, preventing my announcement of my imminent retirement. I had to tell the new assistant co-ordinator - the skeevy guy I don't like terribly much - instead. He shrugged and said, "Okay then, I'll cross your name off."
Now, I wasn't expecting wailing and weeping and gnashing of teeth. Or a party, come to that. But after nearly four years, haven't I even earnt a "Sorry to lose you" or "Thanks for your time"? Hmph.
The radio station we have on at work was broadcasting a tennis match from the Australian Open yesterday, and every single game was one of those that got to deuce then advantage, deuce, advantage, deuce, advantage, deuce, etc, ad nauseam. I used to play tennis, back in the day. Oh yes, I once hit the en tout cas as part of the Purnim Ladies' Club (Girls) team in the Warrnambool & Districts Lawn Tennis Competition. I even have a commemorative spoon to prove it. I had a cunning little forehand slice that I could put right on the centre line, baffling the two players on the other side of the net... and that was about it, really. It was my complete lack of ability, athleticism and ambition that stopped me from becoming world No. 1.
So while I'm au fait with the rules of tennis, I had a personal rule of my own, one that I deemed prudent not to mention to my team mates. Namely, when stuck in one of those interminable deuce, advantage, deuce games, once we got to deuce for the fifth time, I would let the other team win the game.
Years later, in an annual performance review, an employer told me I wasn't a team player. Well... guilty as charged, Your Honour.